Cold Water
by Fflur Cadwgawn
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. A witness to John's attempted murder identifies one Richard Brook as the would-be killer. For their own safety, Lestrade forces John and Sherlock into hiding, but two Sherlockian deaths in a row will look suspicious to the public…Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

Post-Reichenbach. A witness to John's attempted murder identifies one Richard Brook as the would-be killer. For their own safety, Lestrade forces John and Sherlock into hiding, but two Sherlockian deaths in a row will look suspicious to the public…Rated for language.

I'm doing this once and only once. I don't own anything.

SHJWSHJW

_**Present**_

John Watson hated to admit it, but he was in a real mess this time. It had started off so innocently. Well, innocently for Sherlock, anyway. Gasping and treading Thames water, he tried to wave to the police boat coming toward him, but his jacket was just too waterlogged. He felt himself sinking. _Oh, no._ The water was getting warmer as it washed over his face. _Definite sign of hypothermia. Damn you, Sherlock!_

"There!" He heard the shout when he resurfaced, and he closed his eyes in relief. Donovan had come through after all. There was a sudden flurry of activity from the boat as two of the rescue divers dove in and started swimming toward him.

"It's alright, we've got you," one of them said. _Female_. He was shuddering and coughing now, but he didn't miss the concerned look that passed between the divers. The other, a male, was instructing him to do something. _Oh. Turn onto his back._ He tried, the water going over his head again. He was tired, exhausted from being in the cold water for so long, and the wet clothes kept dragging him under. Hands grasped his arms firmly. He came up sputtering and flailing his arms, frantically trying to grab onto something solid and free them of the restraints.

"It's alright, don't fight us," the male said. He'd seen the fellow around Scotland Yard but hadn't ever been properly introduced.

Then suddenly the police boat was there, and they were being hauled overboard. John started shivering violently. "Cold," he managed to get out through chattering teeth, leaning against the side of the boat and trying to control his shaking. At least twenty liters of water were streaming from his coat and jeans, and he felt people trying to get the wet clothing off him. His boots were removed with a loud squelching and the sound of water gushing out of them; the socks peeled off and replaced by something warm and lined with what he thought might be fur. A warm wool blanket was wrapped around his shoulders; another was tucked around his legs. Orders for towels were given.

"I wouldn't doubt that," Lestrade said somewhere above him. "It's the middle of January and you decide to go for a bloody swim." He moved off to the left. "Okay, people, let's get back to shore. Get an ambulance waiting."

"Don't need one," John said through clenched teeth.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock told him as the towels came. "You were in there for over five minutes. Have you any idea how quickly hypothermia can set in at this temperature?"

John glared at him. "I'm a doctor. Of course I know." He jerked away from the towel Sherlock was using to rub the Thames out of his hair. "And I can do that myself, thanks." He snatched the towel from Sherlock but dropped it in his lap, pulling the thick grey blanket tighter around his shoulders, his hands shaking violently.

Lestrade squatted by Sherlock's side, offering a steaming mug to John. "Just hot water, I'm afraid," he said. "Caffeine's not good for the system after a dunking like that."

John took the ceramic mug gratefully, hissing as it burned his hands, and he pushed back the retort that was on the tip of his tongue. Of course caffeine wasn't good for a hypothermia victim. His skin was on fire all over, but he was shivering and his teeth were still chattering. The boat jarred against the dock, and something thin was pressed into his ear. _Thermometer. Paramedics are here._ Someone was rubbing his legs, working the circulation back into them.

"No ambulance," John muttered as the mug was removed from his hands and Sherlock helped him up.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said again. John could tell Sherlock was rolling his eyes and thought the detective would claim the situation was _"Boring!"_ any minute. "You can barely stand on your own, and you're hardly aware of what's going on. I'll ride with you."

Walking down the gangplank, John realized Sherlock was right. "Fine," he grumbled. "Have it your way." Hands pressed him onto the gurney, the legs of the contraption were lowered, and he was lifted into the waiting ambulance.

"Sorry, sir," the attendant said when he had finished taking the vitals. "We've got to get your core temperature."

John grimaced, but rolled onto his side so the attendant could do the deed. He'd done it himself enough times in Afghanistan. "I hate that," he said to no one in particular. "What's the reading?"

"Well below normal body temperature," the attendant said grimly. "Sorry, sir. Looks like you're in for a rough time." Sherlock helped the attendant cover John with a thermal blanket, staying uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the trip to St. Bart's.

SHJWSHJW

By evening John was feeling much warmer. His throat had become scratchy from calling for help for so long, and his ears still felt like there was water in them. Thankfully, he'd been detached from most of the machines and the nurses had quit having to take his core temperature so much. Mrs. Hudson had brought some of his old flannel pajamas from the flat. Sherlock was perched in the hard visitor's chair by the bed, his fingers steepled under his chin. The doctor had come and gone, saying that she wanted to keep John overnight for observation; John privately agreed given the amount of water he'd inadvertently swallowed during his swim in the Thames, not to mention the fact that his left foot refused to get any warmer than it had been when he was pulled out. An orderly had come with dinner for both of them, depositing on the bedside table hot tea and soup that was gratefully received. Now Sherlock's tea sat beside him on the end table, untouched.

"How did you end up in the Thames?"

The question was abrupt, and John stared at Sherlock over the rim of the Styrofoam cup. He swallowed and put the tea down. "Sorry?"

"How did you end up in the Thames?" Sherlock repeated again.

"I was shoved. I never saw who shoved me. After I surfaced I was a bit preoccupied with keeping my head above the water." He couldn't say anymore as a coughing fit overtook him. Sherlock rescued the tea before it spilled on the blankets.

Lestrade entered then. He was evidently running on adrenaline. John knew for a fact that he'd been up all night the previous night, trying to track down the clues Sherlock had given him. "Donovan found someone who saw what happened this afternoon," Lestrade said without preamble when John's coughing fit came under control. He rubbed his chin, covered with at least a week's worth of greying stubble. "The witness identified a Richard Brook as being the individual who pushed John into the Thames. Sorry, John, Sherlock, but I think we need to disappear you two for a while."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Before this story progresses, I should say I'm an American that's never been overseas. Also, obviously this will become an AU fic once the next episode after Reichenbach airs.

SHJWSHJW

John couldn't suppress a groan. They'd barely gotten Sherlock back from the dead, and now they had to disappear again, both of them this time. "Don't you think it's a bit soon for that? Two Sherlock deaths in a row will get the public wondering just a tad too much." The coughing fit started again.

"Mr. Obvious," Sherlock muttered from his chair, rolling his eyes.

"I realize that," Lestrade said. "We've put out word that we're dragging the Thames for you, and Sherlock's gone to hospital from a drug overdose. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Sherlock, maybe you should have stayed in hiding, hmm?" John looked at the detective pointedly. "Lestrade, what have you in mind for us this time?"

"I'm not sure. Suggestions?"

Sherlock smiled wanly. "I'll think of something."

"How long are you going to be here, John?" Lestrade asked, ignoring the outburst. "Arrangements need to be made."

"The doctor thought I'd be released in the morning." There was no point in saying "going home," was there? Damn that coughing!

"All right," Lestrade agreed. "Mycroft will call me when you're ready. I'll send someone down to pick you two up."

"By the way, Lestrade," Sherlock said slowly, "who was it who saw what happened?"

"Some redhead. Donovan had her come to the Yard. Said her name was Kitty Riley."

SHJWSHJW

"Sherlock, I know you're upset over this. You think I'm not, too?" Or at least John tried to say that, coughing so hard he gagged. Finally catching his breath, he leaned back into the pillow and closed his eyes, willing the coughing to stop completely.

"I don't like the sounds of that cough," Sherlock said, staring out the window through the blinds. "You spent far too long in that water."

"Maybe if we're lucky we won't have to go to the Yard because I'll be too busy hacking up half a lung," John retorted, his throat stinging. His foot was finally starting to tingle and burn. _I wish I knew who really did this to me. Given Kitty's track record, I'm willing to bet she masterminded it. Or this Richard Brook did. Dammit, I thought Sherlock said that Moriarty killed himself._ He breathed deeply, willing the coughing to remain silent, then mentally groaned when it started up again and he gagged from coughing so hard.

"That does it," Sherlock said. "I'm getting the nurse to take a look. If I remember correctly, the last time I took an unannounced swim in the Thames I spent the better part of a weekend with my arms around the toilet. A weekend I could have spent on a case."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I will be _fine_. Now sit down and shut up. I can't leave until morning, anyway."

SHJWSHJW

John was bored. He'd never cared much for hospitals, even when he was the one at the bedside. Mrs. Hudson had been back after dinner with his laptop, so he sat there propped up in the bed scrolling through the blog.

_I watched him die._

The words stared at him from the screen from his second-to-last blog post; he stared back.

_He ended the call and I saw him toss the phone onto the rooftop behind him. Then he leapt. Is it fitting that he leapt at the same spot where William Wallace was executed?_

_The funeral is in two days. At least he went quickly. I saw enough lingering when I was in Afghanistan, working meatball surgery all hours of the day and night (M*A*S*H had the term right, folks). Some people stayed for months, gradually deteriorating in both body and spirit, before finally passing on. There's something to be said about going quickly, barely time for a goodbye…I only hope that when my time comes it will be as fast. Then will come the awful task of cleaning his half of the flat out. If anyone wants it, there's a box of science equipment with your name on it._

_Despite what the tabloids say, despite what the papers write, Sherlock was never fake. Remember that._

Then, the last blog post, which he had written only that morning:

_All these months, I've not written a word. I was blinded by what my eyes saw. Humans are blinded by what they see._

The computer eventually put itself to sleep that night.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The American Western tune mentioned is "Listen to the Mockingbird" and was written for the fiddle.

* * *

The television in the living room of the safe house was tuned to the news.

"_In the city of London, investigators are still trying to find Dr. John Watson. He was last seen on a bridge overlooking the Thames. His partner, the renowned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, has been admitted to St. Bartholomew's Hospital due to drug overdose. Deborah reports from the Thames."_

"_We're not sure what has happened here,"_ the thin broadcaster said. _"I'm here with Detective Inspector Lestrade. DI Lestrade, what can you tell us about the situation?"_

"_All we know for certain is that a witness saw John Watson being shoved over the guard rail of that bri—_"

Sherlock irritably switched the television off and flopped over on his side. "Bored!" he announced to the back of the couch.

John sighed and turned a page in the book (a trashy thriller he'd found in a drawer upstairs, written by an American author who desperately needed a proper tour of London) he was reading. "You've said that three times in the last hour. It won't help." He blew his nose and sniffed. His scratchy throat from the night before had turned into a full blown cold overnight. His voice was constantly changing its pitch.

"Did you fill your prescription?"

"It was an antibiotic. Completely useless against the common cold."

"What kind of doctor prescribes antibiotics for what is so clearly a viral infection?"

"Lots of them." John sneezed again. And again. And again. When he finally stopped, he leaned back in the overstuffed chair, breathing deeply and willing the cold to just go away _now_. "I need tea," he groaned. "Is there any Twinings in the kitchen?"

Sherlock picked up his violin. "Two tins of Irish Breakfast and one tin of Prince of Wales tea. Help yourself." He started playing, something John thought he'd heard on the London equivalent of Broadway.

"What about honey?"

"Hot lemonade with honey and real lemon juice would be better instead of tea for that cold." Sherlock didn't stop playing, instead turning to the window with his eyes closed. It was a lively American Western tune now, full of notes imitating birdsong. "The honey is by the sink."

John rolled his eyes as he set down the book and got up. "And you complain that I practice witchy medicine…" The violin wolf-whistled at him and started mimicking American cardinals. "You ever been Stateside?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Once or twice. Why?"

"The violin."

"What about the violin?"

"You're playing the song of the American cardinal. You know—_cheer up, cheer-ee, cheer up_." John dipped the note on the _cheer-ee_ and hit an even lower note for the _ee_.

The birdsong stopped as Sherlock turned to eye him. "Just because one plays American birdsong on a violin does not mean the player has been to America," he said sourly.

"What's your excuse, then?" John rummaged through the cabinets and decided on a pot of Prince of Wales tea. "Next thing, you'll be saying I'm partial to Wales because of my tea choice." He sneezed.

"No, I'd be saying you like the dark, musky flavours of tea. It was the person who bought the groceries for us who was sympathetic to the Welsh. And the Irish. Really. I ask you, who buys Welsh cakes and not scones?"

"That's because you know me, Sherlock. What about the people you do that to you don't know? And maybe the person who did the shopping _was_ Welsh."

"I knew about your sister."

"You knew she had an issue with alcohol. You didn't know her gender."

"You weren't so quick to correct me last May when I was on St. Bart's roof!"

John stared at him, open-mouthed. Sherlock rarely lost his temper like this. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm cooped up, we don't have a case, I don't have my things, and for the time being it seems like we'll be here a while. Of course I'm not okay. My mind is _bored_! It needs to think, to stay active! I can only go over the contents of this house so many times!"

John sighed. His cold was starting to make his muscles ache and he wanted nothing more than to go to bed. The kettle whistled, and he poured the hot water into the pot. "We are _not_ playing Cluedo. Where's the tea strainer?"

"Silverware drawer. Chess?"

"Fine. I think there's a cheap game somewhere in the TV console."

"Found it!"

The very first piece Sherlock captured was John's queen. "How did you do that?" John demanded.

"The white queen's bishop. You moved the wrong pawn."

Two moves later, John captured Sherlock's queen. "And check."

"Touché." But Sherlock promptly captured the offending knight with a rook.

John captured the rook with his own queen's bishop. Three moves later, he regained his queen when one of his pawns reached Sherlock's side of the board. "Is that a checkmate?" He smiled innocently while Sherlock scowled down at the pieces.

"Clever. Trap the king with a rook on either side, then checkmate with the queen. Interesting move."

"The only one the computer likes and won't call a draw."

"You've beaten a computer?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Obviously. I figured it was the only way to beat you, if I could figure out how to beat the computer."

Sherlock pulled out his phone. "I'm contacting Mycroft. Maybe he can send somebody to bring medical journals or something."

"Yeah, that'd be great," John agreed, thinking of the trashy thriller. "I hope we hear from Lestrade soon."

"It's barely been twenty-four hours. Give the man time."

"Now _you_ lecture _me_ about patience?"

"All right." Sherlock set the violin down with a protest from the strings. "Arguing isn't going to work. We're stuck here, so we might as well make the best of it."

"What do you mean?" John refilled his tea cup.

"The news! We're all over it. Maybe our friend Miss Kitty is. We can still get information from the telly." Sherlock grabbed the remote and switched the television back on to the news channel. "John, what exactly happened yesterday?"

"It's a long story."

"We've got ages. Tell me."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Here's the latest chapter for you folks! Sorry it's taken so long and this is such a short chapter. Farmwork doesn't stop!

* * *

_**Three days earlier**_

Sherlock burst into the apartment with his usual impatience. "John, we have a case! Come on."

John eyed his flatmate over the morning paper. "In this weather? It's the worst snowstorm London has had in fifty years, and we have a _case_?" He set the paper down and rubbed his eyes. "There's a state of emergency in effect. No unnecessary travel."

"That doesn't stop criminals. Come _on_. Lestrade texted me half an hour ago!"

"Sherlock, not even the cabs are running today."

"_Come on!_"

John sighed, pulled on another heavy sweater before putting on his coat. He found a thick knitted hat and equally thick leather gloves lined with wool fleece, shoved the winter wear on, and followed Sherlock out the door.

SHJWSHJW

It was on account of the cabs not running that they had to walk to the scene, on the banks of the Thames. Sherlock had said it wasn't far, but…._Walking five bloody kilometers in this weather. Damn you, Sherlock!_ The wind was howling around the buildings, creating wind tunnels in the alleys. It pelted John's face with ice crystals and wet flakes of white snow. _Lovely. Freezing rain with the snow._ By the time they reached the spot, his face was frozen. London normally didn't get snow, but there were easily fifteen centimetres of wet snow on the sidewalks. _Barely above zero centigrade, then._ The snow was coming down thicker now. Lestrade and Donovan were already there. Donovan was off by one of the squad cars, huddled with Anderson around a large Thermos someone had brought.

"John, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted them.

"What have you got?" Sherlock asked crisply. He ducked under the police tape and started surveying the scene. Something was covered in a sheet. He lifted the edge of the sheet to reveal the body of an older woman.

"Looks like a serial killer," Lestrade said carefully. "But I can't figure it out. Think you can?"

"I'll have a go." Sherlock pursed his lips. The snow suddenly erupted in a small spray toward Sherlock, not two centimeters from his feet. "Gunman! Get down!"

John and Lestrade dove behind the nearest squad car. Lestrade pulled out a pistol. "Think you can handle a gun?" Lestrade asked.

"Give it here." John took it and sighted along the barrel of the pistol, mentally calculating the trajectory of the bullet based on the spray from when it had hit the snow.

"The alley!" Sherlock pointed in the direction the bullet had come from. He was flat on his stomach behind another squad car nearby. Donovan and Anderson were nowhere to be seen. _Probably huddled behind their own car._

John ventured a look toward the alley in question. The buildings along both sides consisted of pizzerias, store fronts, and at least one yarn shop. In the alley itself, there was a line of dumpsters behind the food places. _No doubt that's where our man is._

"He'll head toward the Thames if you try to cut him off," Sherlock said quietly. John had long since given up on wanting to know how Sherlock knew everything. "Lestrade, when you get a chance radio Donovan and tell her to get a boat on call. You may need it." Sherlock poked his head over the side of the car and was rewarded with another near miss. In the snow, a streak appeared across the windshield of his car, and he quickly dropped back down. John fired twice, automatically mapping the trajectory of the bullets again. _Damn_. The shooter had moved further down the alley.

"You okay?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"I'm not hit."

Lestrade ducked as the gunman fired two more bullets in their direction.

"Woman."

"What?" Lestrade cautiously uncovered his head.

"Woman. You can tell by the trajectory."

"Not now, Sherlock!" John hissed.

"She's not shooting to kill. To wound, yes. Or to scare."

"What's she hiding?" Lestrade wondered.

"Or _who_ is she hiding," Sherlock said. "Are the others safe?"

"As far as I know." Lestrade risked a glance over the boot of the car.

John was ready this time, firing two shots in reply to the ones coming from the alley, and he chose that moment to dive into the alley and use a Dumpster as cover. He ignored Lestrade's startled gasp. At the other end of the alley, he spotted a dark figure dart around the corner and dashed after it. Behind him he could hear shouts from the police and Sherlock, but his mind was fully engaged in the chase now.

Sherlock was right. The gunman (woman?) _was_ headed for the Thames.


End file.
